- Chapter 2 -
Hermione lived in a cottage in a small wizarding town twenty miles outside of London, mostly bedridden when she realized that most of the time, that was where Ron would find her.
Sometimes, she worked in her garden, humming to herself in what she might imagine seemed crazy to anyone around her. Wispy creatures meandered all around her, an unearthly Sphinx lounged in her petunias, and she smiled to herself when the Kneazle's wandered up to her, eyes so big and faces so flat that she couldn't help but think of Crookshanks.
The first time she got caught petting one was the first time Harry cried.
She never touched the things she saw again.
At first, her eyes reeled at the things she saw. There was too much there that shouldn't be, all glossed over in pink and white, and shimmering where the light shown through them.
There were random trails that disappeared into nothingness, magical creatures, and occasionally, even some people; but the people never interacted with her, never even seemed to realize that she was there.
Not even Ron, though he came to visit her almost every night.
There were children who played with the occasional toy, or who plucked flowers out of the asphalt, but when Hermione tried to approach them, they'd fade out of existence, leaving only nothingness behind.
Even in this new world, Hermione found herself all alone.
Sometimes, Hermione went out shopping, but she was an outcast now, even among those who didn't know her.
Her bushy hair had become unkempt and dirty, parts of it patchy and short where the damage the fiendfyre had done was beyond repair. (She found it ironic that the fire they had escaped in the final battle would be Ron's undoing in the end.)
When she passed by on the streets, people drew their children close, and refused to look her in the eye. She heard mutterings of being the loony witch at the very edge of Tinworth, and it made her reluctant to leave her cottage.
Harry did most of her shopping. She didn't need much, didn't eat much.
She wore old clothing that covered the majority of her skin, because she knew that would only scare the people who saw her even more. She was covered in scars from the damage the fiendfyre had done to her body, and the veins in her arms were grotesque and protruding were she'd ripped the IV's out on a nightly basis trying to get to Ron.
Her skin was pale, and her body thin, and she knew she was sickly and weak, but there was little she could do about it.
The sickness was of her mind, and every night and sometimes all day, she'd lie awake just to see Ron visit her. It didn't matter that he was burning to death in front of her eyes. She thought it just punishment for surviving where Ron had not.
They told Harry that her mind had snapped, that there was nothing they could do for her, and Hermione wondered sometimes why it was so.
Ron's death had unraveled her where the war had not, and she guessed it had to have just been the final straw.
The things she could see had scared her at first, but she'd come to accept them.
They were her reality now, and no matter what anyone told her, there was no way she was ever going to change that. She didn't know if they were real or not, but she could honestly say that she wasn't crazy.
Maybe her mind had snapped, but she wasn't crazy.
She was just broken.